Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 02/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  “He’d forgotten the dog in that instant when he sensed success, when he thought the hardest part would be done. So when it came leaping out at him, grabbing hold of his own ear and tearing it as it shot by, the farmer screamed in such rage and pain that he dropped the halter and started splashing about, swinging his arms, wanting only one solid punch, one painful crack on the dog’s head. He had to get rid of the dog or it would kill him.

  “The struggle had preoccupied him to the point where he’d lost any sense of his location. He had probably been slipping down the slope of the hole for a few seconds before he noticed that the water was pouring over the top of his waders, sloshing down all the way to the rubber boots, quickly filling them. He still had hold of the cow’s ears, and he quickly realized that that cow had become his lifeline, his only hope. He needed to use the cow’s buoyancy to keep him from going down and not coming up.

  “The dog nipped at his ear again, but he didn’t care. He had the cow’s ears and thought that he should try to slide up and put his arms around its neck. He still had hope, a slim hope, that he would get out of this mess and the cow seemed to cooperate, staying still and floating along with the current until maybe they would settle into a shallow place.

  “It became an intense struggle, as he tried to keep his head above water while his waders ballooned and became heavier and heavier, pulling harder and harder. He heard the dog splashing behind him, staying with them, but no longer attacking him. The dog, that damn dog, would kill him one way or another.

  “So when the cow suddenly rolled away from him and he lost his hold on the ears, and then rolled back and over him, forcing him down, he knew that he had only himself to blame. Not the cow, not even the dog. When he knew he wouldn’t come up again, when his last breath bubbled away and the cold water filled his lungs like it had filled his waders, his last thought was that the damn dog would survive him and probably the cow as well.”

  The room was silent for a moment as Dan’s voice died out. He had begun to talk quietly, as he promised, but the volume of his voice had risen as the story reached its conclusion. He wondered what Jane thought about the story.

  The woman sat on the edge of the bed with her knees drawn up, somehow looking smaller. Without saying anything about the story, she reached for her purse on the table beside the bed and got out a pack of cigarettes. She lit one with a tiny disposable lighter, inhaled deeply, and slowly blew out the smoke through her nostrils. She continued to smoke without saying anything, finishing half of the cigarette. Then the doorknob rattled.

  Brucie burst into the room holding a magazine in one hand and a pint bottle in the other. He slammed the door behind him, looked around the room as he unscrewed the cap on the bottle, tilted it back, and finished it in one long swig. Then he tossed the magazine toward Jane, who tried to move, but still got the flapping leaves of the magazine across her face. Brucie laughed and flipped the empty bottle toward Dan. Dan turned his head, the bottle glancing off the wall and hitting him in the shoulder.

  It was a bottle of Old Grand-Dad that Dan always kept in the car in the event that he became stranded in a blizzard on the plains. It was in the emergency kit that had the space blanket, the little Sterno stove, the coffee, and the chocolate. He had never opened the bottle, so Brucie had to be drunk.

  “At least I know you’re a man, now,” Brucie said. “You got a girlie magazine and whiskey in your car.”

  “It’s just a Playboy,” Dan said, foolishly embarrassed for some reason.

  “Yeah, and I bet you don’t look at the pitchers.” Brucie started giggling as he said this, confirming his drunkenness. As soon as he stopped, he looked thoughtfully at Dan and smiled. His eyes had become dulled, but Dan knew this was deceptive. The fury inside the man was hotter than ever.

  “I’m feeling like I don’t want to wait another couple of hours for that bank to open. I’m feeling like I want to get on the road right now. This fifty dollars will put gas in that car of yours and get us a meal. Maybe I should just call it good and move on. Maybe that’s what I should do. What do you think, pardner?”

  He had walked over beside Dan. Tired and hungry and sore as he was, Dan knew what was going to happen next. Fear flushed up from deep inside and for a moment he felt himself swelling with adrenaline, wanting to break the ropes and rise up and at least defend himself. But it lasted only that moment and he felt himself slumping, felt despair replace the adrenaline. He looked down at the man’s boots, pointy cowboy boots, and wondered if he was going to use them to kick him to death.

  Dan looked over at the woman sitting on the bed. She had moved to the edge of the bed. She had the magazine, the Playboy, in her lap. She looked down at the magazine, and Dan had the idea that she was trying not to say anything. She knew what was going to happen. Dan knew she had seen it before.

  “Don’t, Brucie,” she finally said in a tired voice. “Let’s just go, like you said. Let’s just go somewhere else.”

  “Oh, we’ll go, all right. Just let me say goodbye to our buddy Dan here. He’s been so damned helpful.” His eyes had brightened; the hateful heat inside was fueling his rage.

  “Don’t, Brucie. Please,” she said. “I’ll leave you if you do. I’ll go, and you’ll be on your own.” She stood up and looked around and grabbed her purse from the nightstand by the bed. She glanced at the door and then back at Brucie.

  Dan should have been watching the boots instead of the woman. One of them slashed at him and caught him in the side. He thought he heard a crack as the air whooshed out of him. He toppled over onto his side. He lay there, struggling to breathe, seeing the boots just inches from his eyes. When he was able to take a shallow breath, a sharp point of pain in his side blew all of the air out again.

  “If you leave, I’ll come find you. I’ll find you and I’ll talk to you just like I’m talking to Dan here. You’ll come back.”

  Dan had his eyes on the boot this time and was able to turn to the side and absorb the kick with his shoulder. It hurt, but at least he could breathe. He wanted to ask for help from the woman, but he knew he was lost and even in his fear and pain, he knew that the woman should probably leave while she had the chance. Maybe Brucie wouldn’t find her. Maybe she would call the police in time. He heard her heavy footsteps and hoped that she would escape. All he could do was look at the boots and wonder how long he would last.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he suddenly heard Brucie say.

  The boots suddenly rotated, facing the other way now, and then slowly floated off the floor. Dan looked up and saw Brucie dangling in Jane’s arms. She held him in a bear hug as he squirmed and kicked his legs, trying to escape.

  Dan gritted his teeth through the pain, managing to right himself, leaning back against the wall. Jane’s big arms completely encircled the little man, her hands clasped on opposite elbows. She turned with him as she squeezed, spinning around slowly like they were dancing. Brucie was kicking slower now, his pointy boots searching for the floor. His pale face had turned a bright red, his lips a strange pastel blue. Then the kicking stopped and she held him like some limp, life-sized doll. After he had been completely limp for several minutes, she laid him on the bed.

  She stood over Brucie’s body, her face stony and unreadable. She watched him sprawled there on the bed and even leaned a little closer, turning her head as if searching for the whisper of his breathing. She might even have been waiting for him to wake up so she could apologize and do something nice for him, or ask what they could do for fun. Any fun thing he wanted to do. But Dan could tell with certainty that Brucie would never wake up. Finally she sighed, her broad shoulders rising like the final swell of a volcano before it collapsed in on itself.

  She turned and took heavy steps across the room and stood over Dan. He pushed himself away from the wall, trying to turn, thinking she would untie the ropes on his wrists. He could do the ones on his ankles on his own.

  He felt her touch, but instead of loosening the ropes, her arms slid around him an
d then his feet were off the ground and their eyes were level. Dan was bigger than Bruce, but she held him with ease. Her brown eyes gleamed from the tears that filtered through her mascara and ran in dark trails down her cheeks.

  “I ain’t no cow. And Brucie wasn’t no dog,” she said, her breath soft with spearmint gum. “He was just a sad and angry little man. He used to be good to me, but lately he forgot how to do it. I kept thinking he would remember those good days when he wasn’t so mean, but some things you can’t change.”

  She squeezed him harder. “You got that straight? The next time you go talking about dogs and cows there won’t be no mention of me or Brucie.”

  The incredible pain in his ribs made him suck at his lips, suck for air like it was in the spit and drool, and then he felt like he was swallowing his tongue, he was so desperate for breath. He nodded his head feebly to show that he understood. Then she carried him over beside the bed.

  “I want you to tell me that number. I didn’t mind that you lied to Brucie, but don’t try it with me.” She sniffed and blinked at the tears in her mascara-laden lashes as she spoke.

  Dan nodded his head again to show that he would do that very thing and anything else she wanted if she would only give him some room for a breath. She stared at him grimly, her puffy face only inches from his, finally putting him down on the bed beside Brucie. When he got some fraction of his breath back, he told her the number, repeated it three times to make sure.

  She stooped over Brucie and got the credit card and cash he’d stolen from Dan out of Brucie’s shirt pocket. Then she touched her fingers to her lips and touched Brucie’s cheek. “He weren’t a dog,” she said softly, “and I ain’t a cow.” Then she put the cards and cash into her little purse and went to the door. She paused to pull a small handkerchief from her purse and dab her eyes. “Tell the police what you want, but I expect I’m pretty easy to forget. I’ll leave your car someplace further down the road.” And then she slid out the door.

  Dan lay for a long time on the bed, snatching teeth-gritting breaths, more afraid of the woman now than he had been of Brucie. He waited until the pain had subsided, until daylight shone through the window, and then he called 911. The local sheriff’s deputies were skeptical about his story and questioned him for hours about Brucie’s body. In the end, they let Dan go after confirming his identity, assuring him that they would be talking with him again. Dan refused to go to a hospital, which didn’t seem to bother the deputies.

  He found a rental car in the nearby town and drove the two hundred miles to his home in Fort Collins. His wife nursed his wounds and taped his chest when he again refused to go to a doctor. He gave vague answers to her questions about what had happened, but she didn’t press him. He would tell her all about it later, when he found the words. Or when the words found him.

  Copyright © 2010 by Gina Paoli

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  Fiction

  SAFE AND SOUND

  by Edward Marston

  Author of five established series of historical mysteries, ranging from the Middle Ages to the Victorian era, Edward Marston begins a sixth line of historicals, this time set not in his native U.K. but in New York, with this story starring private detective Jeb Lyman. Marston is, of course, the best-known pseudonym of writer Keith Miles, who has produced golfing mysteries and other works under his own name. At about the time this issue goes on sale, the latest Marston novel, Under Siege, will be released.

  New York City, 1868

  The attack came when he least expected it. Henry Culver, a wealthy banker, was driven home in a cab through the gathering darkness of an April evening. He was in a contented mood. Having dined with some colleagues, he’d been able to mix business with pleasure and wash both of them agreeably down with the finest of wine. As the cab took him through a maze of streets, Culver dozed happily off. It was only when the horse clattered to a halt and the vehicle shuddered that he was jerked awake. He alighted, paid the driver, and moved unsteadily towards his house. Before the banker reached his front door, however, a burly figure stepped out of the shadows, knocked off his top hat, and cudgeled him to the ground.

  Culver was a healthy man in his early fifties but he was no match for a seasoned ruffian. Exploiting the element of surprise, the attacker struck and kicked him unmercifully. All that the banker could do was to curl up and try to cover his head with his arms. The assault was over as suddenly as it had begun. After drawing blood and inflicting pain, the assailant turned on his heel and ran off to a waiting horse. Henry Culver was left groaning on the sidewalk.

  In the years that he’d been working as a private detective in the city, Jeb Lyman had watched a great deal of fear, grief, and desperation walk through his office door, but he’d never seen them so starkly embodied in one person before. Maria Culver was in a terrible state. She was trembling with fear, ashen with grief, and gibbering with sheer desperation. Her once-handsome face was pockmarked with tragedy. Getting up quickly from behind his desk, Lyman helped her to a chair, poured a glass of water from a jug, then helped her to sip it. Gradually, his visitor started to calm down.

  “Do please forgive me,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’ve been so worried.”

  “Perhaps you’d care to tell me why,” he said, softly. “My name is Jeb Lyman, by the way. Whatever your problem, I’ll do my utmost to help you get rid of it.”

  Maria took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. After giving her name, she told him what had happened to her husband the previous evening and how she’d found him, sprawled in a pool of blood, not five yards from his own doorstep. Listening patiently, Lyman deduced a great deal from her appearance, dress, and educated vowels. Clearly, she was a loyal, loving wife from a privileged world into which crime had never before intruded.

  Lyman was a stocky man in his thirties with features that were inexcusably ugly. He had the face of a desperado; however, he was intensely law-abiding and had an unshakable belief in the concept of justice. The more he listened to her story, the more he wanted someone to pay for the vicious assault on Henry Culver. As soon as she’d finished, he picked on a salient point.

  “You say that nothing was stolen, Mrs. Culver?”

  “No,” she replied, “that was the curious thing. My husband thought the man was after his billfold and his pocket watch but they were untouched.”

  “Robbery was clearly not the motive for the attack, then.”

  “I’m so frightened, Mr. Lyman. Henry might have been killed.”

  “I very much doubt that. Since he had Mr. Culver at his mercy, the assailant could easily have battered him to death, but he drew back. It sounds to me as if he was administering a warning.”

  “Why on earth should he do that?’ she asked.

  “That’s what we must find out,” said Lyman, pensively stroking his chin. “I take it that you’ve reported the crime to the police.”

  “They were summoned immediately.”

  “So why have you turned to me?”

  “That was my husband’s idea,” she explained. “Henry doesn’t have much faith in the police. He thinks they reserve their best efforts for more serious crimes—though nothing is more serious to me than this, Mr. Lyman. I can’t bear to see him in such a condition.”

  “It must be very distressing for you.”

  “He remembered your name being mentioned by a close friend of ours—Thomas Reinhold. I believe you recovered some stolen property for him.”

  “I did rather more than that,” said Lyman, recalling that he had also solved a murder in the process. “I’m grateful to Mr. Reinhold for recommending me.”

  “Is there any hope of catching this brute?”

  “Oh, yes—there’s always hope, Mrs. Culver.”

  “How will you go about it?”

  “First of all, I’d like to speak to your husband. Is he in a fit state to answer questions?”

  “Yes, M
r. Lyman.”

  “Then let’s take a cab back to the house,” he suggested with a reassuring smile, “and I’ll begin my investigation at once.”

  Propped up in bed on some pillows, Henry Culver was a sorry sight. His face was heavily bruised and two bloodshot eyes stared out from beneath the bandaging around his head. He had sustained cuts, abrasions, and a cracked rib. The fingers on his left hand had been broken by a blow from the cudgel. His lips were swollen, and some of his teeth had been dislodged. He was evidently in great pain, but had refused to go to the hospital.

  Left alone with him, Lyman expressed his sympathy and asked him to recount what had happened. What he heard was substantially the version given to him by the wife but there were additional details. The banker remembered that his attacker had an Irish accent and had said, “That’ll teach you, Mr. Culver!” before he fled.

  “It was no random assault, then,” noted Lyman. “He knew exactly who you were and when you were likely to return.”

  Culver was alarmed. “Does that mean I was watched?”“It’s more than likely, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Only you can answer that. Do you have many enemies?”

  “None at all that I know of,” said Culver, proudly. “Oh, I have business rivals, of course, and some of them stoop to disgraceful tactics from time to time, but they’d never be involved in anything like this. It’s unthinkable.”

  “Could it be that you’ve upset someone recently?”

  Culver’s eyes flashed. “There’s no question of that, Mr. Lyman,” he snapped, “and I’ll thank you not to make such suggestions. I’m a highly respected banker with years of service behind me. I didn’t get to such an eminent position by upsetting people.”

  Lyman suspected that that was exactly what he’d done. Culver had the peremptory tone of a man who expects to be obeyed and who can’t conceive that he’s causing offense when he throws his weight around. The detective became less sympathetic towards him. On the other hand, Culver was retaining his services, so a degree of politeness was obligatory.